


Eyes Off Of My Pride

by sybarite1



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, D/s, Dialogue, First Time, M/M, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybarite1/pseuds/sybarite1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jensen signed up for the army, he did not think it would bring him to this point in his short 28 years on earth: a drunken fugitive trying to explain bdsm to his unit, without referencing himself too much, in a hotel in Guatemala City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Off Of My Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'On Top' by the Killers. This story is a very late birthday present for my sister. Sorry Noodle!

 

When he was a kid his doctors used a lot of fancy medical terminology to explain ‘his brain won’t shut off.’  Doctors - always so self-important.  Then again, his granddad took to explaining it as ‘boy’s like a squirrel, always running from tree to tree’ so maybe medical terminology has its place.  Apart from all the bewildered looks this got him, it wasn’t that difficult a way to grow up.  Lots of tech and mech and running around and judo.  Apart from the summer of bad decisions where he also tried to learn hip hop dancing, it wasn’t the worst way for a hyper kid to grow up.  

Until he discovered his dick.

Maybe it makes him sound more rabbit than squirrel but Jensen swears half of his hyperactivity is stored in his dick.  Or, well, not his dick.  The part of his brain hardwired to his dick.  The part of him that clamours for attentionaffectioncontact but wants no repercussions for it.  Jensen’s not stupid.  He knows that unless you’re a baby or a super babe, that sort of thing doesn’t really happen.  _Everyone_ wants attention and the world is particularly cruel about making you pay for it.  If he hadn’t actually grown up on the Internet, instead of in the small town listed in his personnel file, Jensen may have never learnt that there were a lot of people just like him and a lot of things he could do about it.   As soon as he was old enough (read, old enough to get into a big city for a night and have people accept his fake ID) he started hitting the clubs.  On his knees, looking up with some man or woman’s fingers under his chin, Jensen finally sloughed the need to think or talk.  He found that he didn’t have to go often, but he did have to go.  It kept his destructiveness at bay, it quelled some of the bubbling frustration that he attributed most of his bad _bad_ decisions to, and it made him bearable as a human being.  Well, somewhat bearable.

Since enlisting, pretty much all his leave has been split between taking his niece on awesome day excursions and taking himself on awesome night excursions.  He has a little ritual, when he gets back stateside: he shaves because it makes him look and feel younger and prettier, he gets out his softest, oldest jeans and he heads to his favourite club where they have all his limits and preferences on file.  After dirty jobs in forgotten places, the slick commercialism of big city sex - the convenience of sliding to his knees and getting it exactly how he wants, makes Jensen patriotic every damn time. 

God bless America

 

* * *

 

The problem with being burnt by the CIA and disowned by the US military is that you don’t get into the US all that much and you don’t get military leave at all.  All Jensen’s downtime is spent bitching over card games in squalid towns with the rest of his unit or in front of his laptop, mainlining pop culture with the headphones on to blot out the sounds of whichever Loser is getting lucky that night.  Spoiler alert: it’s never Jensen.

It’s been too long since Roque went and sucker punched them all, and Aisha became more dangerous, and they went to: a hospital; a soccer game; and on the run again.  In that order.  They’re lying low in Guatemala and slowly coming to terms with the fact that they’ve become honourable rogues.  Do you know how many BDSM clubs Jensen has found in Guatemala City?  None and counting.  He’s already started going for longer runs and working out more to keep the itch in his hindbrain at bay.  He’d try to get laid too but he never learnt how to pick someone up, only how to keep still and let someone pick him.

He tells himself that he’s been hiding his increased restlessness and snappishness, although given the size and closeness of their unit, that’s unlikely.  Still, no one has spoken to him about it (Feelings McPooch), or even looked significantly at him (Cougar).  So it’s ok, he’s doing ok.  Until suddenly he’s not, until it’s been achingly too long since someone relieved him of his responsibility to make decisions.  Then, before he can determine the best course of action for dealing with his clamouring need, he tries to pick a fight with Pooch over his propensity to sex-Skype Jolene from Jensen’s laptop.  He only succeeds in picking a fight with himself; yelling at his bewildered teammates and then, for posterity, punching his own fist into a wall.

There’s no drywall in Guatemala, only bricks.

 

* * *

 

Jensen’s team splints his broken fingers and, as is their duty, gets him drunk.  They’re part of the sparse weekday crowd in their seedy hotel’s downstairs seedy bar, drinking and eating and placing wagers on pretty much anything.  He apologises, of course he apologises.  He blames it on the stress of being fugitives, the fact that he now only knows crazy people and the fact that he can’t get laid in Guatemala.

They’re good guys (except for Aisha, who is neither good nor a guy) and so they agree that this is all very true except-

“What do you mean, you can’t get laid in Guatemala?  You couldn’t get laid in Bolivia either.  You can’t get laid anywhere.”  Pooch is not above laughing at his own jokes.

And Jensen would normally let that slide with a little bluster but he’s drunk on cheap liquor and extremely nostalgic about all the hot hot sex he _knows_ he could be having so, no, not this time.

“You sailors ever notice how happy I am at the end of shore leave?” Jensen likes mixing military metaphors because, yup, there it is, they make Clay scowl.

Pooch and Cougar share an absurdly cartoonish look that conveys ‘ _Gee, he_ is _pretty happy at the end of leave_.’

Jensen smirks.  “I get plenty laid stateside, boys.  I’ll grant you that picking up women is not my strong suit but I am an old hand at looking pretty and being picked up instead.”

“By women.” Says Pooch, fairly incredulously.  Clay, the bastard, laughs.

“At least 60% of the time.” Smirks Jensen.  Which, yeah, he’s never outright said he’s bi to them before but he has said “Marry me, Commander Spock” enough times that they probably knew. 

No one seems phased by the coming out.  Everyone seems phased by the idea of well-laid Jensen.  And Aisha is staring at him weirdly.

“What?” He’s starting to get offended.

“HOW?” says Pooch.

“Well, I go to a club.  And I have a drink and I wait.  Haven’t struck out once.”

This last bit seems to startle even Cougar.  He’s a pretty unshakeable dude but, to be fair, he’s seen Jensen strike out more than anyone else here. 

“Huh.” Says Pooch, for lack of anything else.

Jensen sips smugly at his drink.

Aisha murmurs something to Clay, smiles menacingly at them all and then retires to her room.  Because Jensen is an idiot who can’t leave well enough alone, he squints at Clay and asks

“What she say?”

“She said to ask you _what kind of clubs_.”

Aw.  Shit.

 

* * *

  

When Jensen signed up for the army, he did not think it would bring him to this point in his short 28 years on earth: a drunken fugitive trying to explain bdsm to his unit, without referencing himself too much, in a hotel in Guatemala City.  Outside, rain falls steadily.  Inside, Clay, Pooch and Cougar frown at him with a blatant lack of comprehension.  
  
Jensen sighs and pulls himself groggily to his feet.  He is careful with his splinted fingers.

“Now that I’ve broken your meagre minds, I’m going to rush home to my hangover.”  He sways a little until Clay catches his elbow.

“C’mon.” says his CO. 

Jensen goes.

 

* * *

 

The hotel has no elevator and it takes ages to climb the stairs to their floor. 

“This is like the Lord of the Rings.” Jensen tells Clay. “It took us 30 years to get here.”

Yeah. Whatever was left of his brain-to-mouth filter has fucked off.

“You are such a freak.” Says Clay, but affably.  He gets the door open and pulls Jensen in.

“This is not my room.”

“No.”

Jensen sways and blinks at Clay.  Clay sighs.

“About what you said down there.  How are we gonna manage it?”

Jensen frowns.  “You patched me up and got me drunk.  It’s managed.”

“Is it gonna happen again?”

“I don’t know.” Says Jensen; too drunk to be cagey.

“That’s a problem.”

“Fuck you.” Jensen doesn’t have to take this. “My sexuality is not a team problem to be managed.”

“Jensen, you.” Clay frowns hard.  He is clearly trying for the right words.  Jensen would sympathise if Clay weren’t also being a massive dick.

“You’re a dick, sir.” It sounds as mutinous and hurt as he feels.  Clay flinches before speaking quietly.

“Jensen, you tried to put your right hand through a wall.  That’s your mouse hand.” He pauses, awkward, “I’m worried about you, son.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Can I help?  Aisha seems to think I can.”

“I’m too drunk for this.” He honestly is.  He is not going to explain kink negotiation to his straight vanilla Commanding Officer at 2AM, blitzed on painkillers and booze.

For once, Clay agrees with him.

“You’re right.  But if you do want me to help, come by tomorrow when you’re sober.  In the meanwhile I’ll… I’ll spend some time on Google.”

Jensen snorts in amusement.  It’s always so hard to stay angry at his CO.

“Don’t sprain something Clay.”

“Smartass.  Can you get to your room?”

“Which one is that again?”

 Clay manhandles Jensen back into the hallway, down the hall and into his own bed.

 

* * *

 

Jensen wakes up in the part of morning so close to noon that no one would freak out if you ordered steak and a beer from room service, especially not in this fine establishment.  He doesn’t do that, though.  He orders and eats appropriately greasy breakfast foods.  He drinks coffee and sighs when the twinge in his head subsides without much fuss.  Thank jeebus he learnt to drink in the army.  He takes some painkillers for his fingers, hums off key, wraps his hand in a plastic bag and has an awkward shower.  It’s only when he’s out of the shower and carefully shaving with his left hand that the last night’s conversation comes back to him.

Clay had offered.  He doesn’t even know what Clay had offered.  It’s very likely that Clay doesn’t know what Clay had offered.  Jensen is horrified by the certainty that he’s going to say yes, though.  He knows by the way he had started shaving off his facial hair on autopilot, that old thrum of _gonna get some_ having kicked in well before his memory or any of his rational faculties had.  Dicks, man, they have a mind of their own.  He pats down his now smooth and pretty, pretty face before dressing and heading to Clay’s room.

He’s only whistling because it’s a win-win scenario.  Either Clay was serious and Jensen’s gonna finally get laid or Clay is now freaking out about it, and Jensen’s gonna get to make him super uncomfortable.  Either way, it’s looking like a great weekend.

 

* * *

 

No one on Jensen’s team is sleeping together.  That was true when Roque was still on board and it’s true now that Aisha is back to spending her evenings alone, nursing her vengeance so that it grows up strong and wily.  That does not mean that Jensen hasn’t speculated.  He’s seen entire SEAL teams -they of the rippling abs and cocksure attitudes - that will never be as hot as his unit.  The Losers are all too good looking and charismatic by half so yeah, Jensen has wondered.  But he’s wondered in a straight-up sex way.  He has never, ever let himself think about being dominated by any of them. 

So he wonders now, about Clay.  Does the colonel know what Jensen needs?  Is he capable of dominating him?  Clay’s a powerful man but a lot of power men prefer being dominated in bed.  Then there’s the whole sticky issue of his presumed heterosexuality...  Jensen knocks.  This is gonna be more entertaining than watching Maury.

Clay calls that the door is open.  Jensen opens it and stomps in with gusto.  He stops just inside the doorway and takes in the scene: the neat hotel room, with the bed made and Clay sitting on the battered couch by the window reading what looks to be a Guatemalan newspaper.  Has he got the language for that?

“Close the door and take off your shoes.”

Jensen notices that Clay is also barefoot, although otherwise looks like a tourist or maybe a journalist dressed for the heat: loose white button down, olive green fatigues and permanent stubble.

“Why?”

“Because housekeeping just cleaned the floors.”

Jensen smirks, closes the door and locks it.  He toes off his shoes and socks and stays in the doorway because Clay hasn’t told him to move.  Housekeeping is two stern maids who you have to call down for.  They charge extra, which means that Clay wants his floors clean.

“In case you ravish me before we reach the bed?” Jensen is being a dick, but Clay deserves it after last night.  Clay grimaces but visibly steels himself to answer.  He closes and folds his newspaper, laying it beside him on the couch.

“In case you want to kneel.” He answers, glaring a little.

Just like that, Jensen suddenly has no words.  He gapes a little before shutting his mouth.  He hopes Clay has a direct question lined up for him because his hindbrain is steadily taking over and it isn’t very coherent.  Clay continues glaring at him, and then makes a face that Jensen has well documented.  It is his _what am I gonna do with this idiot?_ face.

“Do you have a safe word?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need pain?”

“No.”

Clay exhales heavily, as though relieved. 

“Sex?” asks Clay.

“Absolutely necessary.”  Jensen grins with all his teeth.

Clay fidgets a bit. 

“Right.  What is it, then?”

“What’s what?”

“Your safeword.”

“Spock.”

Clay snorts and shakes his head.  “I thought a safeword is supposed to be something you’re _unlikely_ to say during sex.”

“Shut up.” Yeah, hindbrain still not eloquent.  Still, a part of him is impressed. 

“I’m impressed.” He hears himself say.  “You googled for me, Clay.  Was it scary?”

“Terrifying.” Says Clay, dryly.  “Come over here.”

Jensen walks up to Clay and goes to sit on the couch. 

“No.” says Clay, intercepting him. 

His hand, warm and large, closes on Jensen’s wrist.  He pulls Jensen until he is standing right in front of him, between Clay’s spread knees.

“Kneel.” Says Clay.

 

Jensen blinks.  He thought he’d come over to tease Clay or maybe to explain how all this worked.  At best, to redeem the teammate duty-fuck voucher Clay seemed to be offering and get a handjob or something.  He didn’t think Clay would be ready and willing to take this leap right now, with the midday sun streaming through the thin curtains and Jensen’s fingers tingling in their new splint.  Jensen kneels.  After all, the man’s got to be certain about enough if he had the floors cleaned.  Going by the swift look of satisfaction that breaks across his CO’s face when Jensen a) obeys and b) is on his knees, Clay’s going to be a natural.

“Put your hands on my legs.”

Jensen’s blood is humming as he rests his right hand, splint and all, on Clay’s thigh.  His left hand, on Clay’s other leg, is already gently rubbing the tense muscle.  Clay, like so many anonymous men and women before him, puts his fingers under Jensen’s smoothly shaved chin, and tips his head back for a better view.  It’s different.  It’s so different Jensen feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room.  He has his unit - who know him, and years of strangers -who knew what he needs.  He’s never looked at someone who knows everything.  It’s so overwhelming he forgets to breathe for a few seconds while Clay studies him.

“Breathe, son.”

Jensen exhales and inhales shakily.  That’s the second time in as many days that Clay’s called him that.  He normally calls him Jensen or Captain.  _Son_ sounds like it’s just for this and he likes the weight of it.  Familiar.  Concerned.

Jensen is so hard right now.

“I’m so hard right now.” He admits.  Clay’s mouth tips in a half smile.

“Be still and be quiet.”  Jensen stops idly rubbing Clay’s thigh with his working hand.  Clay’s eyes crinkle as his smile grows.

“You can make noise but don’t talk unless I ask you a question.  Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” The approval is as solid and welcome as it always is.  Jensen shivers a little.  Clay’s eyes darken and he bends to kiss him.

 

_So much for presumed heterosexuality_ , thinks Jensen, and smiles against Clay’s mouth.  The rasp of his stubble and the cigar smoke smell of him, so definitely Clay, undoes the disbelieving part of Jensen that couldn’t imagine that he might ever get to have this.  He moans appreciatively into Clay’s mouth.  When they come up for air, Clay’s lips are wet and his hand has moved to the back of Jensen’s neck, holding him steady.

They’re breathing hard.  Clay leans back and puts enough distance between them that, kneeling, Jensen’s eyes are drawn helplessly to the other man’s crotch.  Clay’s hard, which Jensen understands.  One kiss and a bit of bossing around and he’s also hard.  Guess they’re both of a type.  Clay let’s go of his neck and his thumb lands on Jensen’s bottom lip, pulling it free of his teeth.  He didn’t realise he’d been biting it.  Clay slides his thumb into Jensen’s mouth.  He sucks almost immediately, an obscenely wet sound that almost covers Clay’s rough breathing.  His thumb begins to fuck in and out of Jensen’s mouth as Jensen struggles to continue sucking it.

With his other hand, Clay undoes his fly.  At the susurration of the zipper, Jensen opens his eyes and watches Clay free his impressive cock from his pants.  He looks up at Clay, who is watching him intently, gaze heavy and possessive, tracking the movement of his thumb in Jensen’s mouth.  Jensen is still, like he was told, waiting for Clay to replace his thumb with his cock.  Jensen wants it, wants to choke on it, Clay’s hands on his face and neck, Clay’s voice catching as he talks him through it.  Jensen can smell Clay’s arousal and his own cock is leaking in sympathy, wetting his jeans like he was ten years younger.  He whimpers when Clay takes his thumb back.

“Stand up.”

Jensen stands.  He could wonder what Clay wants instead but the thought flies away before he can latch onto it.  Clay will tell him what he wants, and Jensen will do it.  He doesn’t have to worry about anticipating anything here.  He’s a little sad though.  He really wants to taste Clay’s cock.  Clay, for want of a better word, arranges Jensen in his lap.  He’s straddling Clay, splinted hand resting on Clay’s shoulder and the other warm against his neck.  The angle puts Jensen higher than Clay and kissing him from this angle is new and exciting all over again.  Clay is biting at Jensen’s lips.  His fingers, thumb still wet, are undoing Jensen’s ruined jeans.

Clay gets one big hand hot against Jensen’s hip and the other on his ass, pulling him in.  Jensen moves the way Clay wants him, sliding closer until their cocks bump.  Jensen gasps.  Clay grins up at him.  He holds Jensen’s eyes easily and slides his hand off Jensen’s hip and around both their cocks.  Jensen twitches up, an aborted attempt at a thrust.  Clay watches him steadily as he pumps their cocks.  Jensen fights against closing his eyes.  He trembles with the effort but he doesn’t move in Clay’s lap.  He holds Clay’s eyes as Clay begins to work them in earnest, everything getting hot and sticky in the clutch of his hand.  Jensen pants and moans, the muscles of his thighs and ass clenching in pleasure and restraint.  He is so close.

“Good boy.” Says Clay.  His voice is deeper, he’s also breathing hard.

“Do you want to come?” asks Clay.  Jensen moans in reply before he can think to speak.

“Yes sir.  Please.”

“ _Fuck._ ” Clay’s voice catches over the profanity.  His hand speeds up.  Jensen is unravelling above him, fighting not to move his hips, breath coming like sobs against Clay’s mouth.

“Come for me, Jensen.  Make as much noise as you want.”

Jensen cries out, the sound is sharp and short.  His curls in over himself as he comes into Clay’s grip, seconds before Clay follows him.  Dropping his face into the curve of Clay’s shoulder, Jensen shakes with the aftershocks for what feels like a long time.  His mind is astonishingly blank.  Beneath him, Clay’s breathing evens.  The hand on his ass moves to stroke up and down his spine, eventually stopping to cup the back of his neck.

“Okay?” asks Clay.

Jensen huffs laughter against Clay’s neck.

“Okay.” He says. 

The hand on his neck tightens a little threateningly.

“Okay _sir_.” He corrects. 

Later, when he can make full sentences, he’s going to tease Clay about how quickly he got into that.  Doms and their power trips.  For now he just hums contentedly against Clay’s skin and doesn’t think about anything. 

 

* * *

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> This is just fictional Jake's fictional take on submission. For porn. D/s works differently for everybody and certainly isn't a cure or treatment for ADHD. Also, BDSM scenes need discussion and consensus and kink negotiation that's more thorough than displayed here. Clay has a lot to learn. Don't be all 50 Shades irl, yo. Do it right.


End file.
